American Assassin

Stansfield heard the soft footfalls on the stairs coming down to the lake. He turned and made out the image of Hurley in the moonlight. The platform swayed as he stepped onto the L-shaped dock. Hurley approached his boss without a word and pulled out a pack of Camels. He offered his old friend one, knowing that he liked to acquaint himself with his old habit when he was away from his wife. The two men stood facing the lake, looking up at the starry night sky, puffing on their cigarettes for nearly a minute before Hurley finally spoke.

“I fucked up.”

Stansfield gave no reply. Just a simple nod of agreement.

“Maybe it’s time I call it quits.”

Stansfield turned his head a few degrees to look at Hurley and said, “I will tolerate a lot of things from you, but self-pity is not one of them. You’ve never been a quitter and you’re not going to start now.”

“I got my ass beat by a college puke.”

“You got your healthy ego bruised is what happened.”

“You don’t understand. It should have never happened. I still can’t explain how it happened. I’m not getting any younger, but even on an off day I’m still better than ninety-nine point nine percent of the guys out there.”

“I know math was never your strong suit, but the answer is pretty obvious.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“If you can beat ninety-nine point nine percent of the guys out there and he bested you that means he’s in the point one percent.”

Hurley shook his head. “I don’t see how it’s possible. Not enough training.”

“You don’t see it, because you don’t want to. I did a little checking on my own. Irene’s find is an exceptionally gifted athlete. He’s considered a bit of a freak of nature in the world of lacrosse. Did you know he’s considered to be one of the greatest college lacrosse players of all time?”

“What in hell does that have to do with fighting?”

“A great athlete can learn almost anything, and do it a lot quicker than an average athlete,” Stansfield said firmly. “Your big problem, though, is that you allowed your personal disdain for anyone who hasn’t worn the uniform to cloud your judgment.”

“Still—”

“Still nothing,” Stansfield cut him off. “The boy is a three-time All-American and national champ. You got thumped by a world-class athlete.”

“Who has no real training.”

“You yourself said he’s been taking classes.”

“Rolling around some mat at a strip mall is not training.”

Stansfield let out a tired sigh. It was his way of releasing pressure so he didn’t blow. Some people you could gently tap a with a finishing hammer a few times and they would get the point. Not Hurley, though. You had to hit the man square in the forehead with a sledgehammer repeatedly to get your point across.

“Sorry,” Hurley said meekly. “I’m still having a hard time buying this kid’s story.”

“You are possibly the most stubborn person I have ever met, and that’s saying a lot. You have used that to your advantage many times, but it has also gotten you into a fair amount of trouble, and before you get all sensitive on me, this is coming from the guy who had to get you out of all that trouble over the years. I’ve called in a lot of favors to pull your ass out of the fire. So hear me when I tell you that this issue is moot. The kid beat you, and quite honestly I don’t care how he did it, or where he learned how to do it. The fact is, he did it, and that makes him a very desirable recruit.”

Hurley finally got it. “What do you want me to do?”

“Fix it.”

“How do I fix it if I’m not even sure where I fucked up?”

“Stop being so conveniently modest. You know where you made mistakes … It’s just not in your nature to confront them, so dig a little harder and they’ll turn up. And by the way, I made a few mistakes of my own. Ultimately, you are my responsibility.” Stansfield glanced back up at the house. “That last hour in there was one of the most embarrassing of my career.”

Hurley was too embarrassed himself to speak.

“We’re supposed to know better,” Stansfield continued. “We’re the veterans, and we just had two kids point out something that we both should have caught. There was a day when I knew better. To put it mildly, you are an organizational nightmare. You belong in the field. I think this,” Stansfield held his arms out and motioned at the nature around them, “lulled me into thinking that you were in fact in the field, but you’re not. You’re too corralled down here.”

“Then let me go active again,” Hurley said in an almost pleading voice.

Stansfield mulled the thought over while taking one last puff. There were any number of saying, that could be applied to the espionage trade, but few were as appropriate as the phrase, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.” At some point you had to jump into the game. Stansfield had grown weary of receiving secure cables telling him that another one of his assets had been picked off by these radical Islamists. It was time to start hitting back.

“Stan, these Islamists aren’t going away.”

“I’ve been telling you that for ten years.”

“Looking at the big picture, they’ve been a minor irritation until now, but I sense something bigger. They are organizing and morphing and spreading like a virus.”

“You can thank the damn Saudis and the Iranians for that.”

That was true, Stansfield thought. Very few people understood the bloody rivalry between the Su

“Okay … and after six months?” Hurley asked with a bit of optimism in his voice.

“I’m going to turn you loose. We need to hit these guys back. At a bare minimum I want them lying awake at night worried that they might be next. I want you to scare the shit out of them.”

Hurley smiled in anticipation. “I know just what to do.”

“Good … and one last thing. You’re almost sixty. This is a young kid’s game. Especially your side of the business. Our days are numbered. We need to start trusting these kids more. In another ten years they’re going to take over, and we’ll probably be dead.”

Hurley smiled. “I’m not going down without a fight.”

CHAPTER 19

BEIRUT, LEBANON

SAYYED mopped his brow with a rag. The front of his white T-shirt was splattered with the blood of the man who had just confessed to myriad sins. The basement was warm and damp, and he’d been at it for most of the day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to work so hard to get a man to talk. He was thirsty and hungry, but both needs would have to wait. They were gathered upstairs, nervously waiting to hear what he’d discovered.

Sayyed dropped the pliers on the metal cart. The device bounced and fell open, the serrated clamps releasing a bloody fingernail. There were eight total, strewn about the stainless-steel surface, sticky and gooey with blood and tissue. Sayyed admired his work for a second. Every man was different. For some, the mere threat of physical pain was enough to get them to admit their deception. Others, like this Jewish pig, took a little more work. He’d employed many different methods to get at the truth, but he preferred fingernails and toenails for the simple reason that there were twenty of them. And they grew back.

Sayyed had seen torture practiced in a wide variety of forms. Most sessions were brutish and conducted without forethought or pla